The Return of Sherlock Holmes
by LyricsArePoetry
Summary: *for lack of a better title* It's been three months since Sherlock's 'death' and John's not coping well. His therapist tells him to write a letter to Sherlock about it, but what happens when he finds Sherlock reading that letter? Johnlock. T for safety
1. Prologue

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Don't be dead. I stood over your grave three months ago and begged that. In this time I've begged and pleaded, god Sherlock I've even prayed. The whole time just wanting you to come back. I don't even know why I'm writing, it's stupid, it's not like it'll change anything. It's not like a stupid piece of paper can bring you back. My therapist recommended it. Oh yeah, Sherlock, I'm back there. Eighteen months without needing it and then straight back there. Because of you, Sherlock. All of this was because of you. You have no idea what you have done to me._

_I hate you. I hate you because you made my life so much better. Because of you I wasn't just sat in some stupid, pointless 9-5 job bored out of my skin. Because of you, the thrill the war gave me was still there. Because of you everything was great. Because of you, Sherlock. Now I don't know what your opinion of yourself is, because you seem to be egotistic and narcissistic, you seemed cold and heartless and then you were crying on the hospital roof. But whatever you think of yourself, you have to know you saved me. What I said at your grave, I was so alone, I was just back from the war, and everything was so normal and I couldn't bear that, you made that better. You have to know that. But you know what, as a doctor I considered myself a good judge of character. The problem was I made the mistake of thinking I understood you. I don't think anyone understood you, Sherlock. Not even Mycroft, or maybe least of all Mycroft._

_I miss you, Sherlock. I said I hate you and I think I did or at least I wanted to. You left me, left me to pick up the pieces. You jumped and you made me watch. I want to believe it was some trick, but I'm a doctor, I know when a man is dead. I'm certain I will never be able to get that image out of my head, Sherlock. You stepping out. Jumping isn't even the write word, you just stepped out. You falling. But I think even worse than that was seeing your body turned over, the scarlet bloody lining your pale face. I will never forget that. I will never be able to put that behind me._

_See the problem is you're Sherlock Holmes. You're not just some city suicide. You're wonderful, you're amazing, you're fantastic. You could decipher anything and anyone in seconds and yet you are the biggest mystery. Why would you jump? It has something to do with Moriarty doesn't it? It must have. Tell me Sherlock, was it all a set up? Mrs Hudson, me getting called away, you acted like you didn't care? Did you really set all that up so you could be on the roof ready for me to watch? You said "Alone keeps you safe" did you mean that? Is that was part of the problem? You were getting close to people and that was outside of your comfort zone? I don't understand why you'd jump though. Why you wouldn't let me or someone help. We could've and we willingly would've, me, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade, I bet even Mycroft would've had you asked for it. You only needed to ask for it Sherlock. We would've done anything. _

_There's one thing I still don't understand. You wanted me to believe you were a fake. You wanted me to believe that Moriarty wasn't real, that Rich Brooks was. You wanted me to believe that you researched me, that you couldn't really be like you are. Sherlock, I lived with you for eighteen months, I got to know you even if I didn't really know you. I know enough to know that you're genuine. You're one of the only truly genuine people there are around, you're honest, you're true. You. Sherlock Holmes. There's no way you could ever be a fake. I meant what I said, you could be that clever. You are. …You were. I will always believe in you, Sherlock. No matter what the papers say, no matter what people think. I know better. Lestrade knows better. Mrs Hudson knows better. You are real. We believe in you._

_Just one more thing, Sherlock. If this is just a trick, if you're not really dead, don't do this to me anymore. If this is just some sick joke or some twisted form of protection, just stop it. Just come back to me, let me know you're alive. I need that. If you don't come back I don't know what I'll do. I considered going back to Afghanistan because London is too mundane, but I don't know if I can do that again. Plus Lestrade wants me to stick around, he wants to keep an eye on me I think. Make sure I'm ok. The problem is I'm not ok. I'm not going to be ok, not until you come back._

_Except I need to stop thinking like that don't I? You're not coming back are you? You're dead. Mortal just like the best of us. You always seemed so emotional, so heartless, but it seems the truth was the complete opposite. You cared too much, I could hear that in your voice, see it on your face. God Sherlock, I don't know what possessed you to jump, I just wish you were here. I wish I had had the chance to tell you I love you. Well I suppose I've said it now. Not that I can see how this stupid letter is going to help anything. Oh well, my therapist will be glad._

_Goodbye Sherlock,_

_Thank you,_

_Yours,_

_John Watson._

He folded the letter up and placed it in an envelope, penning the name _Mr Sherlock Holmes _and _221B Baker Street _on the front, before sealing it and dropping it in a postbox.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Did you mean friendship or romantic?"

John froze in the doorway of 221B, thankful that he's hand was still on the door. He gripped it tightly, feeling as though he could be pushed over by a feather. He recognised the voice, there was no way he couldn't. But it didn't make sense. It was the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes but that wasn't possible. He initially wrote it off. He was going mad. He was hearing things. He must've been. He had come to Baker St for closure. It was a week after he had written the letter and posted it and he knew something needed to change. He needed to go home, he needed to see it again. He needed closure and he felt like Baker St was the place to give it to him. Since Sherlock's death he had only been there to gather the things he needed. The majority of his stuff was still there, the majority of Sherlock's was still there. But now he was here he was started to doubt that coming was really a good idea. Hearing Sherlock's voice the second he walked through the door? No, that wasn't helping the whole closure thing. If anything that made him feel worse. That made him want to revert back to being in denial. That made him want to hope and wish it was real. There was no way he'd move on now.

He turned around without a word and went to leave again.

"John, wait," the voice continued. John froze, facing the way out, hand still on the door, he didn't turn back, he didn't continue to leave. He didn't move at all. Sherlock's voice continued. "I'm not a ghost," it told him. "You're not imagining this. I'm really here. Turn around." John didn't move. "John, turn around. What harm can it do? If I'm just in your head then you'll see nothing and you can leave. If I'm not you'll see me. Turn around."

Slowly, John listened to the voice, finally letting go of the door and turning back to look into the flat. And he saw him. The first thing he saw, standing right in front of him, was Sherlock Holmes. Almost as though it was working without his say so, John's tightly clenched fist made contact with Sherlock's jaw, sending him toppling back. Sherlock got his balance again quickly and John stared down at his hand.

"S-sorry," he stuttered, all the emotion he was feeling were clear in his voice. The confusion, the hurt, the anger, the pain. He raised his arm again, his hand open this time and gently touched Sherlock's cheek as though proving he was solid. If he was solid, he must be real.

"I don't think it's you that needs to be apologising," Sherlock told him. His voice was empty, unemotional and John looked up at him, meeting his eyes and just watching him. As always Sherlock was completely unreadable and John know he himself must've been the complete opposite. An open book with everything clear. John wanted to know what Sherlock had been thinking, what he had been doing, why he had faked his death. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to use his army training and demand Sherlock told him every tiny little detail but when he opened his mouth to try to he simply burst into tears.

"John..." there was no mistaking the shock in Sherlock's voice. He wasn't good with emotions, he wasn't good with anything that was remotely /human/, John knew that. He tried forcing himself to stop crying, taking deep shaking breaths but failing to stop the flow of tears. He hadn't cried since Sherlock's funeral, he had been numb and lost but he hadn't been able to cry. He'd felt like there wasn't enough left in him for him to cry, but now he had started he couldn't stop. Now everything he had been holding inside was just coming out. He looked up at Sherlock just in time to see Sherlock wiping a tear away from his eyes.

"I am sorry," Sherlock said slowly and careful. For once his voice wasn't empty, it wasn't emotional, it wasn't unfeeling or uncaring. In fact it was the complete opposite, it was almost uncharacteristically emotional. John stared him straight in the eyes, despite his tears, watching him, trying to out Sherlock's own skills into use on him. As ever it was a vain attempt, Sherlock was unreadable, but his voice had let him down. His voice had held regret in it for which John was grateful. But he was too annoyed to accept it.

"Oh you're sorry?" he repeated. "You're sorry? Well that's good, that's great. That's just great that is. I'm glad you're sorry," John could see that Sherlock was wanting to say something but he didn't give him a chance, "No, you know what Sherlock you can take your apologise and you can stick it. I put up with a lot of shit living with you but I trusted you, I thought… I thought you trusted me as well. But no, you're Sherlock Holmes, you don't need anyone. Why would you? You're so bloody brilliant on your own, never mind everyone else. You know I was hoping and wishing this was a trick but I never actually thought _what if it is. _I never thought you'd be so cold and heartless to do that."

"John…"

John still didn't let him get any further, "No, forget it, Sherlock. You left, you're on your own now. I'm glad you're not dead, but stay away from me."

"John, wait," Sherlock repeated, grabbing John's arm and pulling him back as he went to leave the flat. John swung around, using his free hand to hit Sherlock again. The shock of it caused Sherlock to let go of him.

"I need it," John's voice was bitter. "I hate you."

That time when John turned to leave, Sherlock let him.


End file.
